No Pockets in a Shroud [Short Story]

Chapter Four Blonde Bombshell

A placard hanging on one of El Patio’s double doors read, “Closed for Alterations.” I pounded until the doors opened a crack from the center and Mouldy Greene peered out.

When he saw who it was, he pushed the doors wide. “Hi, Sarge. Come on in.”

“Don’t call me Sarge,” I said. “The war’s over and my name’s Moon.”

“Sure, Sarge. Habit, I guess. How’s the leg?”

I said: “You’re a numbskull.” I walked on through the empty casino into the dining room.

Vance Caramand sat at a table. Greene followed me into the room and flopped himself into a chair across from Vance.

I asked Greene: “Where were you and Caramand when Louie got it?”

Mouldy imitated deep thought, rubbed his chin and said: “I was at the bar. Vance was on duty.”

“What’s ‘on duty’?”

“One of us always stays — that is, stayed — with the old man. But sometimes he got tired of looking at us. Last night he told us to stay the devil out of his sight. When he did that, we always kept watch on his door, kind of. He kicked us out at six-thirty and Vance took first shift. I was due to take over at eight-thirty.”

“So at sis-thirty he was alone in his office?”

“Yeah.”

I turned on Caramand. “Who went in after that?”

He shifted malign eyes over me. “That dame. Nobody else.”

“Sure?”

“I was sitting by the door.”

“After the shot, how quickly did you get in?”

“Pretty quick.”

“How quick is pretty?”

Mouldy interrupted. “It must of been five minutes, anyway. I didn’t hear the shot, see, being way out at the bar. First I knew anything was wrong, the bar waiter walked In fast and said Vance was kicking on the boss’ door. I went running, and first we try both our shoulders against it. It don’t budge, so we stop to think and I get the idea of shooting out the lock.” He made the last statement modestly, as though disclaiming a great mental accomplishment.

I said: “You’re both smart boys. Where’s Fausta?”

“In the old man’s office with Gloria,” Mouldy answered.

“Gloria?”

“A dame. One of the old man’s.”

When I knocked on Bagnell’s door, Fausta’s voice said: “Yes?”

Opening the door, I went in. Fausta and a plump, round-faced blonde sat side by side on the sofa where I had first seen Mrs. Wade. Fausta nervously patted the woman’s hand. She looked embarrassed.

The blonde wept oversized tears which rolled down her reddened face and were skillfully caught in a balled handkerchief before they could spatter the front of a flowered dress.

Fausta said: “Hello, Manny.”

“Hi. Is this Gloria?”

The blonde’s head jerked up as though she were garroted. “Who are you?” Her eyes were frightened and she stopped crying.

“He is friend of mine,” Fausta soothed. “It is not to be afraid.”

I asked: “What are you afraid of, Gloria’?”

“Nothing.” She pressed the kerchief against her mouth and stared at me.

“She think her husband send you,” volunteered Fausta. “She think her husband maybe kill her.”

“Yeah? Who’s your husband, Gloria?”

“It’s nothing. Honest it isn’t.”

Fausta said: “Manny will not hurt you. He is friend of mine. You tell him, and he tell your husband leave you alone. Manny very tough man.”

“Sure,” I said. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. What’s your trouble?”

“He will! He said he’d cut my throat. And he will! He killed Louie, and he’ll kill me too.” She started to blubber again.

“Cut it out!” I said sharply. “What’s this about killing Louie?”

Tears continued to roll, but she stopped sobbing. “He knew Louie and I were in love. He killed him.”

“Who’s your husband?”

“Amos Horne.”

Fausta said: “He run Louie’s bingo game at Eighth and Market.”

“How do you know he killed Louie?” I asked.

“He must have. When he left last night, he called me awful names and said if I ever saw Louie again, he’d cut my throat. He said I was a tramp!” Sobs shook her plump shoulders.

“Shut off that water and answer questions!” I snapped at her, and she stopped suddenly in the middle of a sob.

She licked her lips and looked up at me wide-eyed.

I said: “I hate weeping women. One more sniffle and I’ll take you home to your husband.”

“Oh, no! I won’t cry. Honest.” Her big, dumb eyes pled with me like a stricken cow’s.

I said: “Start from the beginning. How long did you know Bagnell?”

“About three months.”

“How’d you meet?”

“Out here. Amos works nights, and I go out alone sometimes. One night I came out here and met Louie and he asked me to have a drink. We liked each other right off. It was sort of love at first sight. After that I used to come out every Tuesday and Thursday, and we’d talk in his office and have a few drinks.”

“Why Tuesday and Thursday?”

She seemed surprised at the question. “Those were the quietest nights. Louie was never sure of being free other nights.”

I asked Fausta: “Were those quiet nights?”

“Not more than others.”

“Those were just the nights he had open,” I said brutally. “Monday and Wednesday he had a brunette. Probably Friday and Saturday he had a red-head, and rested on the Sabbath.”

She said, “That’s not true,” and looked distressed. But she didn’t start to cry again.

“So you were in love and saw him twice a week. When’d your husband find out?”

“I don’t know. Last night was the first he mentioned it. He goes to work at six, and just before he left he told me he knew all about Louie and me and if I didn’t stay away from him, he’d kill us both. He threatened to strangle me.”

“Cut your throat, you said before.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It’s not the same. Just what did he say? His exact words.”

“He said, ‘I’ll wring your neck’.”

I looked down at her bovine face a long time. “What did he say about Bagnell?”

“He said, ‘I’ll stop him making a tramp out of you, if I have to wring both your necks’.”

“Is that all he said?”

“Isn’t it enough?”

“It’s a little different from threatening to kill you both,” I said dryly.

“Where was your husband last night?”

“He must have followed me here.”

“Here? Were you here? Last night was the brunette’s night.”

She looked hurt. “I felt I had to talk to Louie. But he was busy. I was out front when it happened. I didn’t even know about it until the police came, and when I heard Louie was killed, I got scared. I just stayed with the crowd and left when they did.”

I said: “You sure must have been in love. How come you didn’t rush to throw your arms around the body?”

“I was too scared,” she said defensively. “I knew Amos must have done it, and I couldn’t go home, so I stayed at an hotel all night.”

“Which one?”

“The Park.”

“Under your own name?”

“No. Mary Smith.”

“Original,” I said. “What makes you think your husband followed you here?”

“He must have. He killed Louie, didn’t he?”

I tried it another way. “Where was your husband supposed to be?”

“At work. His place opens at six-thirty and closes at one-thirty A.M.”

“Where’s your husband now?”

“I don’t know.”

I asked patiently: “Where is he usually this time of day?”

“At home.”

“Address?”

“1418 Newberry. Apartment C.”

To Fausta I said: “Can you put this gal up until I check on Amos?”

“Sure. She can stay at Louie’s apartment upstairs.”

“Good. Salt her away until I let you know it’s safe for her to go home.”

In the dining room I found Caramand and Greene in the same positions I had left them.

I said to Vance: “Who tended the parking lot last night?”

“Romulus.”

“Where’s he now?”

“Upstairs sleeping. He don’t go on duty till five.”

Mouldy said: “Tonight he don’t go on at all. Nothing to tend.”

Looking at my watch, I saw it was four.

“Get Romulus up,” I told Vance. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes to talk to him.” To Mouldy I said, “You can be my guide,” and started toward the front door with the bulky bodyguard trailing along behind.

From the driveway I examined the chunky building. Even with two stories it was squatly stockade like, an impression partly due to its shape and heavy stone construction and partly to the thick bronze doors and vault-like windows with their vertical bars. We started to circle the drive around the building’s right side, but I stopped before we came to the turn in order to examine more closely the wrought-iron fence.

At the edge of the building the horizontal components of the fence were set in mortar between stones. Midway between this point and where the fence turned with the driveway was a door-sized gate similar to the one I had noticed through Bagnell’s bath window the previous night. It closed from the outside with an iron padlock. I lifted the lock, noted the hasp was rusted to the frame and let it clang back against the gate handle.

“No one’s gone through here for a long time,” I said.

“Guess not,” Mouldy agreed in the polite tone people use when they don’t understand what you’re talking about and think they should.

From our position near the corner of the building we could see the whole front of El Patio and the entire length of one side. I saw that all the lower floor windows were barred.

We walked on to where the drive turned, and turned with it toward the rear. I stopped at the gate I had seen the previous night from the bathroom window. It was locked by an iron padlock identical to the other, also rusted shut.

“How do you get from one side of this fence to the other?” I inquired. “Nobody’s used these gates for years.”

Mouldy lifted his shoulders and let them drop again. “No one but Romulus comes back here. Maybe he climbs over.”

Continuing on, we turned the corner where the drive entered the parking lot and the fence ran off toward the woods. Directly opposite the center of the building’s rear we came to a third gate. Its padlock was brass and looked new.

“Who has keys to this?” I asked.

“Just Romulus, as far as I know.”

Paralleling the fence, we walked along the gravelled lot until we met the treed area at its end. The fence ended here too, suddenly and incompletely. I stepped around its edge onto the back lawn.

“Fine fence,” I said. “Blocks three sides, but anyone could get in here from the highway.”

“It’s just decoration. Louie counted on the bars for protection.”

I grunted, thinking they hadn’t proved very protective.

We pushed out into the undergrowth, circumnavigating bushes where we could and plowing through when no break was apparent. In about fifty yards we came to the highway.

Almost immediately we found what I had hoped for, tire marks on the clay shoulder. I squatted to examine them and Mouldy followed suit, screwing up his face in an unsuccessful attempt to look intelligent. The automobile had pulled its two right wheels completely off the road, leaving tracks in the shape of a fifteen-yard arc. A slight depression in the center of the arc, smooth and designless, told that the car had stopped, then spun its wheels in starting again. The tread marks were interesting. They consisted of little round dots made by the suction cups of skid-proof tires. I liked that. Such tires are rare, except on commercial vehicles.

Rising, I looked up and down the edge of the treed area in an attempt to detect evidence of anyone having forced through the underbrush. I not only found none, I couldn’t even relocate the spot we had broken through. I am not a woodsman.

We plowed back through the fifty yards of growth and found a sleepy Negro boy waiting for us in the parking area.

“Ize Romulus,” he announced. “Mr. Vance say you all want talk to me.”

I said: “Is Romulus your first or last name?”

He scratched his head and grinned a white, horse-sized grin. “Both, ah guess. Romulus all I got.”

“Where were you when Mr. Bagnell was shot, Romulus?”

“Right here somewhere, I expect. Must have been right about here when Mr. Louie got it.”

“Seems you should have heard the shot, then. The bath window is only twenty yards from the lot.”

“Yes suh. But like I tole that other policeman, I could been up this end putting in a car. Lots of cars goin’ in and out last night. Maybe I hear it and think it’s a backfire, or maybe I racing some engine and just don’t hear it. Leastwise, I don’ recollect no sound might have been a shot.”

I asked: “Any more gates through this fence aside from the one in front, the one on the side and this one here?”

“No suh. Sure ain’t.”

“None in the part running from the front to the highway?”

“No suh. Jes pure fence.”

“Who has keys to the gates?”

“Jes me, suh. Not even Mr. Louie kept no extra keys. Ain’ no use anyone else having keys. No one goes back here ’cept me, cut grass now and then.”

“And the murderer,” I added.

He rubbed his knuckles over the clipped wool he used for hair. “Yes suh. Guess he come back here all right.”

“Was this gate locked?”

“Yes suh. I alius lock this here gate five o’clock when I come on.”

“Five? You mean it’s open before that?”

“Yes suh. No thin’ locked up till five. That’s when the bank truck come wif money for all them games Mr. Louie had. Daytimes I leave this here gate open for tradesmen deliver stuff to the kitchen. They unloads here, carts de stuff over that door there.” He pointed to the lone door at El Patio’s rear, directly opposite the gate.

“Is that locked at five too?” I asked.

“Yes suh. And barred from de inside.”

“Then whoever shot your boss must have come through those trees from the highway, because there isn’t anywhere else he could come from. He’d have to walk the whole length of the building’s rear, and then back again after the shooting. Your overheads throw at least some light back there. How come you didn’t see him?”

“Ah sure don’ know, suh. I jes plain didn’t hear nothin’ or see nothin’.”

We left him there on the lot, scuffing his feet against the gravel and staring after us yawningly.